


Blowing Off Steam

by kaeorin



Series: Stark Tower: Avengers Drabbles [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Arguing, Condoms, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Hate Sex, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Post-Mission, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-30 02:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15086588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeorin/pseuds/kaeorin
Summary: Leave it to Steve Rogers to mess up your night out. Can he make it better?





	Blowing Off Steam

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another Stark Tower drabble, though I also think that 14 pages is too long to be called a drabble. No real backstory to this one, no real reason for the reader to be in the tower. Just accept that she’s part of the team and you’re good to go. In this one, she’s got a female body and identifies as female, so if that’s something that yanks you out of a fic, I’m sorry. The original plotbunny for this was a longstanding desire I had to read some Steve Rogers hate!sex, but I’m not sure the actual sex part really counts as hateful. Pretty rough, pretty graphic. Beware.

After a mission, once everybody got home and tended to their wounds, there always seemed to be some kind of...dark cloud hanging over the tower. It didn’t seem to matter whether the mission was successful or not: you all just kind of got on each other’s nerves for a while until everyone found a way to cool off and decompress.

Most of the team locked themselves away and did who knows what behind their doors. Natasha and Clint were basically the only ones in the tower who could stand to be around each other, and even they usually ended up in the gym, working themselves into exhaustion or sparring until you thought one of the two was going to end up dead. Thor, when he was around, usually drank, though it seemed more celebratory for him than anything else. Still, he’d share his Asgardian booze with Steve and Bucky, so they could drink themselves into a stupor.

You went out.

No matter how things had gone, getting home after a mission always made you jittery. You couldn’t stay in one place for long. The jet tended to bring you home in the evenings, which was handy: you could run up the many flights of stairs to your floor, dress in something revealing, and then run back downstairs. The best thing for you, you’d discovered, was to let yourself get lost in the pulsing beat of loud club music, and to wade into the sea of bodies. It took you out of your own mind for a while and let you ease back into it when you felt right. 

The second step in your decompression process, of course, was finding someone in that sea of bodies and going home with him. 

Sex with strangers was dangerous, of course, but not nearly as dangerous as facing off against HYDRA. With your strength and your training, you knew you could protect yourself against just about everyone in any given club, and with the little foil packet that you stored in your back pocket, you knew you were safe. It let you feel normal for a change, which was always welcome post-mission.

What _wasn’t_ welcome was the stink-face that Steve had taken to shooting you each time the jet landed. He had yet to say anything to you, but his feelings were clear on his face. He didn’t approve. Well, that was fine. He wasn’t your daddy, he wasn’t your handler, and you weren’ t sure that he even considered himself your friend. As long as he kept his 1930’s morality bullshit to himself, he could glare at you all he wanted.

Tonight, your process was no different. The jet landed. You were one of the first ones out the doors. You showered and dressed—dark red tonight, like blood—and then hurried back down the stairs. But tonight you made a mistake: you stopped off in the kitchen for some water.

Steve was sitting at the table, drinking—mother _fuck, seriously?_ \--tea from an actual china tea cup while he glowered at a crossword puzzle. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from saying anything or laughing out loud as you bent over to grab a bottle from the bottom of the fridge.

“You look nice.” The words sounded like a compliment, but Steve’s voice made it sound like a condemnation. 

It would have been smarter to just ignore him. Let the words pass. Hell, maybe even let him stew in your non-reaction. But something inside you prickled, so you forced a smile as you turned to look at him. You opened your water first, and took a long drink.

“Thanks, Cap. It’s nothing fancy.” And it really wasn’t: just dark jeans that fit you like a second skin and an off-the-shoulder top in that aforementioned red. But you carried a matching pair of blood-red pumps that you knew would elevate the look—as soon as you gathered the strength to put them on.

“As long as it gets the job done, right?” He didn’t look at you again, and may even have redoubled his attempts at that crossword, if the ridges between his eyebrows were any indication. His voice was still too sharp. You never spent time alone with Steve post-mission, but damn, if he was always like this, you were glad you hadn’t. You drained the bottle and tossed it into the recycling bin, then stooped to put on your heels. When you were finished, you straightened again and ran your fingers through your hair.

“Oh, it will.” Fuck, why did he piss you off so bad lately? You usually prided yourself on your ability to be cool and civil even to evil men who wanted to tear the world apart, but Steve’s pissiness was just rubbing you the wrongest of ways today. “Enjoy your tea.”

***

This particular club was usually your first choice. It was the perfect size for the crowd it typically drew: it housed just enough interested parties to let you ease through the crowds and brush against the dancing strangers. They kept the music at just the right volume, so you couldn’t quite hear yourself think but, if you had to shout instructions in someone’s ears, they typically understood you on the first try. You let yourself melt onto the dance floor first thing, before stopping by the bar. You were just too worked up to do anything but move.

Hands closed around your hips, bodies pressed against you from the front and from behind, and through it all, you danced. On the rare occasion that some idiot got too handsy, you could get rid of them pretty easily by simply delivering a fierce pinch to whatever skin wound up too close to your hand. There were a few prospects here: sharp jawlines, light eyes, even a dark mop of hair here and there, but nothing really jumped out at you. A few songs later, when you were finally feeling more like yourself, only...parched, you made your way to the bar.

You wedged your way between people and flagged down a bartender with almost no difficulty. Someone put their hands on your hips from behind, and you turned to look. He wasn’t bad-looking. You didn’t usually go for blond guys, but something about the way his hair flipped to one side was...well, it was tempting. You smiled at him and thought about starting up a conversation, but he simply grabbed two bottles from the bar and headed back over to a tiny brunette. 

Well, that was fine. Expected, even. 

You accepted your drink gratefully and took a sip as you headed back out into the throng. You stood off to the side as you drank. Carrying a glass onto the dance floor was begging for disaster. Instead, you watched. There were plenty of possibilities still here tonight, you decided.

“You look nice!”

Someone was shouting beside you. You turned to make sure he was actually talking to you before you actually responded. Sure enough, a man with dark hair stood just a little too close, but the smile on his face was open and genuine. You smiled and gave him a quick once-over

“Thanks. So do you!” And he did. His clothes fit like they’d been sewn specifically for him. They weren’t snug, exactly, but...damn, did they show off his muscles. His eyes were bright, even in the dim club, and he offered you his hand.

“Do you want to dance?”

Hell, yes. You finished the last few sips of your drink and left the glass on a nearby table before letting him lead you back onto the dance floor. He moved effortlessly in the driving beat. Your bodies fit together perfectly, and when you turned to press your back against his chest, he let his hands rest lightly on your hips, without possessing or demanding. He was a strong contender.

Then why, when he spun you _perfectly_ and then pulled you in against his chest again, could you not stop thinking about the way Steve had said “As long as it gets the job done”? Was he calling you a whore? Did you _care_ if he was calling you a whore? Just where did he get off, making judgment calls about what you chose to do for the sake of your own mental health?

When the song ended, Dark Hair leaned down as if to kiss you, but you pulled away. You weren’t a whore. What was the harm in doing something like this, if it helped you clear your mind and go to sleep at night? Dark Hair didn’t even question you, just held his hands up as though surrendering, and then disappeared backwards into the crowd.

Fuck.

The rest of the night was alarmingly similar. Every time you thought you’d found someone you could go home with, fucking Steve crept into your thoughts and screwed it all up for you. If it wasn’t remembering the way his lip curled at you on the jet, it was thinking about how he’d drummed his pen on the table in the kitchen. You were getting nowhere. 

Finally, you gave up. You glowered the whole way home, working yourself into some kind of rage over that sanctimonious old prick in the kitchen and also hating yourself for letting yourself get so worked up over him. 

Against your better instincts, you stuck your head through the kitchen doorway instead of going straight up to your own floor. There he was, still in the exact same spot, still doing the exact same crossword. He met your eyes for a minute, but then looked past you, and then back down at his puzzle. 

“Have fun?” He smiled, and you couldn’t help but feel like he was laughing at you.

“That’s none of your business.” But you didn’t leave the doorway. Maybe you were just sick of his bullshit. Maybe you were trying to pick a fight.

“Seems like you made it my business, when you came through here dressed like _that_ before you went out in search of any warm body you could find.”

And there it was. You took a step into the kitchen, hands on your hips. “What is your problem?” You demanded. 

He looked up and fixed you with a look that could have frozen you solid, if you weren’t already so goddamn pissed off. “Maybe I don’t like it when my teammates put themselves in danger.”

“Bullshit,” you spat. His eyes widened with shock for a moment, before he narrowed them at you again. As you spoke, you continued inching forward. “That’s bullshit. Tony’s going to be down in his lab for the next three days straight, mainlining Red Bull and trying to blow himself up with who knows what nuclear material he’s got, and I’ve yet to see you get any pissier with him than usual. And, if I know Natasha and Clint, they’re going to be going at it with each other for the next twelve hours, and it’s entirely possible that one of them walks away missing a limb. But things are fucking peachy between the three of you, aren’t they?” You were standing right beside his seated form now, and towering over him in a way that even made you uncomfortable. But to step away would be to admit defeat, so you held steady. “No, you don’t have a problem with your _teammates_ putting themselves in danger. You have a problem with me. And, frankly, I’m sick of it. So put up or shut up, Cap. What’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem.” His voice was low and even. He seemed almost nonchalant as he filled in a row of squares on his puzzle. You wanted to yank that pen out of his hand and fling it across the goddamn room.

“Well, that’s news to me.” Common sense was screaming at you to just go upstairs and go to bed.

“This isn’t a fight that you can win.” He was probably right—he had that magic serum in his blood, and all you had was a lifetime of training—but something about his gentle, warning tone of voice rubbed you the wrong way.

“Try me.” You swallowed hard. “Let’s go.”

He sat stock-still and silent, and for long enough that you wondered if he planned on saying anything else to you at all. Just as you felt yourself beginning to waver, just as you found yourself thinking about retreating to your own room until Nat and Clint gave up the gym, Steve stood up, and squared his shoulders so he towered over you again. He looked down at you with an unreadable expression. You’d never seen that look in his eyes, not even in battle. A tiny part of you wanted to cringe away, but the larger, more pissed-off part of you held steady. 

“Did you find that warm body?” He pushed his chair out of the way, and it slammed into the wall across the room. You didn’t tear your eyes away from his, not even as he started advancing towards you. You did take a tiny step backwards, though, and then another. “Did you get some idiot to fuck you in a dirty bathroom and promise to call you later?” He was getting too close, spitting the words in your face with too much venom. “Huh? Fucking answer me.” You were backed into the counter now, and each of his hands came to grip the edge on either side of you. 

“What’s it to you? It’s not the 1930s anymore, you know. People are allowed to fuck strangers, Cap.” You didn’t like this side of him, but you were in too deep now to run away.

“Don’t—call me that.” He spoke through gritted teeth. You heard something that sounded alarmingly like granite countertop crumbling in his fists, but you didn’t look down to check. “I know it’s not the 1930s anymore. You think I don’t see that every day? It’s. Still. Dangerous.”

You swallowed again. “Maybe you forgot after today, but I’m real good at defending myself.” You bit the inside of your cheek again. The battle hadn’t been your best. You’d lost a couple of people, the people you’d sworn to protect. They were the ones you were trying to forget tonight, and of _course_ this argument had to bring them back to the surface. You swallowed hard once again, and tried to force the threat of tears away without actually closing your eyes and breaking eye contact. Thankfully, if he saw anything in your face, he didn’t let on. That was Steve Rogers, alright: honorable, even to a fault. “Fuck off,” you said, all of the fight somehow draining out of you. You reached up to push against his chest, but he was as solid and immovable as the counter behind you. “You win, okay? Just...fuck off.”

“I mean it. Did you get what you needed tonight?” His voice was softer, but he was still too goddamn close. You hesitated before answering, not entirely sure if you wanted to give him the satisfaction. But then it occurred to you that it might be the only way to get him to relent. Fighting back the roll of your eyes, you shook your head.

“No. I didn’t get what I needed tonight. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Happy?” 

This time you missed the slight widening of his eyes, the dilation of his pupils. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and he leaned even closer to you, close enough that you could feel his breath as he whispered: “Well, all you gotta do is ask.”

You couldn’t stop the quick snort that came when you thought about the concept of sleeping with him. He couldn’t stand you, and the feeling was plenty mutual. Still, you tilted your head as you gave him your best approximation of a come-hither stare in hopes of calling his bluff. “You wanna be the idiot who fucks me in a dirty bathroom?”

Now it was impossible to miss how dark his eyes had grown. His lips curled back, but there wasn’t quite as much disdain in his expression as he looked at you. “Your place or mine?”

***

In the elevator, you were too distracted by the feeling of Steve’s mouth on yours to push any of the floor buttons. When it dinged impatiently—FRIDAY’s best attempt at reminding you that there were eyes everywhere, you imagined—he pulled away just long enough to jab at some buttons on the wall. When he returned his mouth to yours, he more than made up for lost time. Your tongues clashed as he worked his hands up under your shirt, stroking the skin of your sides with far more tenderness than he was using to kiss you. The elevator stopped, and he pulled away again to gesture out the doors. 

“Your last chance,” he offered. It took a moment, but your hazy brain finally recognized the floor as your own. There was a clear challenge in his expression, and you weren’t about to back down. Instead, you crashed your body against his, and he allowed you to yank his head down so you could kiss him. You didn’t hear the doors close, but they must have, because soon another ding interrupted you. You pulled back, dragging your teeth along his lower lip. You were gratified by the look in his eyes—almost as hazy as you were feeling—but then he blinked and it was gone. He arched an eyebrow at you and took your hand to lead you out onto his floor. “My bathroom is spotless, but my bed is extremely comfortable. Or do you prefer to get fucked against the wall?”

Something in your stomach twisted, and it was hard to tell whether it was more excitement or nerves. You didn’t feel this way when you were with your random strangers. But then again, how often did those random strangers look at you with the _heat_ that was in Steve’s eyes?

“I _prefer_ the penthouse at the Greenwich, but your bed will do just fine.” 

“You are fucking obnoxious, you know that?” But he didn’t do much to shut you up. In fact, he pressed his mouth against the skin of your neck, just above your shoulder, and sank his teeth into your flesh. You groaned despite yourself, and reached up to twine your fingers in his hair, pulling just a little too hard. He walked you backwards until you were trapped against the wall, sucking at your skin all the while. Just when it started to be too much, just when you caught yourself fighting back a whimper, he released you.

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” you said, in a voice that (thankfully) sounded stronger than you felt. “Did you swear like that back in the thirties?”

He smirked, and the expression looked so out-of-place on his golden-boy features that you had to look away. “I didn’t need to before I met you. But you get under my skin, piss me off until I feel like I’m going to explode. Because you’re fucking obnoxious.” With that, he gripped the neckline of your shirt. Before you really knew what was happening, he’d yanked it apart, splitting it down the center like it was made of paper.

“That was _expensive_ , you ass,” you hissed, smacking his hands. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t: you couldn’t remember. But you had to make damn sure that he didn’t think he could just destroy your clothing without any recourse. For the briefest of moments, he did look a little remorseful. 

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he said. He seemed distracted by your bra. Good. You’d paid enough for it. It was more lingerie than actual support gear: delicate crimson lace cupped your breasts, hugged tight against your body. He brushed the palm of one hand against you, and the feeling of his warmth against your nipple made you arch closer to him. “You don’t wear this stuff every day, do you?”

Briefly, you considered stringing him along, just for fun, but your body betrayed you: you shook your head. “That’s...just for special occasions.” You poked your finger into his chest. “But if you rip this one, there will be dire consequences.”

“Understood.” His voice was low, throaty. You’d never seen him like this before, but you didn’t hate it. He flashed you another grin and put his hands on your hips. “But that means you better take care of it yourself. You gonna strip for me?”

You knocked his hands away, and then ducked under his arm to get away from him. “I don’t give lap dances,” you warned even as you fumbled with the button on your jeans. The movement drew his eyes, and you watched as a wide grin broke out across his face. He didn’t even try to hide it. Irritation stabbed through you, quickly followed by...pleasure? “I’m only doing this so you don’t fuck up the rest of my clothes, you know.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He straightened his back and, for a moment, you wondered if he was going to salute you. But he didn’t. You pushed the denim down your legs and pushed aside the awkwardness you felt as you stepped out of them—and your shoes. Was there a sexy way to take off a pair of jeans? Did you really care if Steve Rogers thought you were sexy? You didn’t look at him. 

He closed the distance between you with just a few easy strides and reached out to caress the matching red lace that sat against your hips. “You really get all dolled up, don’t you?” His voice was thick. 

“Dolled up?” you repeated, stepping forward to press your body against his. “Is that fancy ‘30s slang for ‘dressed like a whore’?” You didn’t quite want to hear the answer, but you were still feeling a little prickly after the ordeal in the kitchen. You weren’t about to go all soft and melty in his bedroom.

His eyes met yours, quick and sharp. “I never said you were dressed like a—” He shook his head. “I would never say that.” 

You shook your head. “You didn’t come out and say it, Rogers, but I think we both know what you were thinking.” You kept your eyes on his, as much as you would have liked to look away. After a moment, his face went hard again and he shook his head. 

“Think whatever you want,” he said. “Just shut up so I can kiss you.”

And he did. Just as he had in the elevator, he claimed you with his mouth. His tongue explored, not relenting for a second. There was no battle for dominance, because he’d already taken that for himself. His hands fisted in your hair, pulling too hard, but you couldn’t drag your mouth away to protest. His teeth were sharp, and he knew how to use them: how hard to bite before the pain overrode the pleasure. When you shivered, he moved his hands down your back to pull you in close. 

He didn’t stop kissing you until you pulled back, twisting your face away from his. It was your turn to slip your hands under his shirt. You let them rest briefly against his stomach, and then dragged your fingertips along his abs before lifting his shirt. Just as you stretched up onto your tip-toes, he took pity and helped you out, yanking it over his head and tossing it aside. You’d seen him shirtless before, of course, but...never for any length of time. Never in any kind of situation where it’d be okay for you to actually look. You couldn’t help reaching out to touch him again—his chest, his abs, the gentle sloping v on its way into the waistband of his jeans. 

“Fuck,” you whispered, and immediately regretted it. He was already insufferable—all you fucking needed was for him to know how you felt right now.

But luck was on your side. Rather than gloating, he merely reached out to glide his hand down the curve of your waist. “Fuck,” he said agreeably. He curled his fingers around your back to pull you in for another kiss. This one seemed ready to become just as fierce and heated as all the previous ones had been, but you pulled away before it could, and tugged at the fly of his jeans.

“We’re a little unevenly matched here,” you said, making quick work of the button and zipper. But before you could take them off, you hesitated, and looked up at him. “You’re not wearing underwear with your own face on it, are you? Because if you are, I swear to—”

He groaned and shoved you backwards onto the bed. “Do you ever stop?” He asked. His voice was still a little too thick to actually sound irritated with you. He pushed his jeans down, and you were gratified to see that he wore a simple pair of navy blue boxer-briefs—and that there didn’t seem to be a sexy way to step out of a pair of pants. 

He didn’t give you long to look at him before he dropped to his knees and pulled on your legs to drag you closer to the edge of the bed. You propped yourself up on your elbows to look at him, and he caught your eyes for a moment before pressing your knees apart. You let your head tip backwards when he rubbed his nose against your mound and exhaled a long, _hot_ breath against your sex. Goosebumps erupted along your arms. You could only hope to god that he was too distracted to notice. 

Maybe he was. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and, in one swift movement, he had jerked them off your hips and down your legs. Still, despite his roughness and lack of decorum up until this point, when he reached out to touch you, he was...gentle. His face was almost soft as he parted your outer lips. When he saw how wet you were already, he smiled—until he saw that you were looking at him, at which point he let his expression twist into a smirk. 

“Has it been a while or something?” He asked, and circled your clit with his thumb. You let your head tip backwards yet again as your body drew in a shuddering breath.

“You know you’re hot,” you gasped. “Don’t play coy.”

Instead of answering, he let his touch slip away, only to replace it immediately with his mouth. The sudden heat made you arch your hips towards him. He sucked gently on your clit, but even that was enough to make your stomach tighten. Your hands fisted in the blankets beside you, and you struggled to breathe normally. Fuck, he was good.

You should have known it was too good to last. Just a few seconds shy of the orgasm that you’d been chasing all night, he pulled away. Somehow, you kept from immediately cursing his name, his ancestors, and every goddamned scientist who’d had a hand in creating the man kneeling before you. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. 

He slipped one finger inside you, then, and pumped once or twice. It was good, but it wasn’t nearly enough. When he spoke, his voice sounded just as calm and collected as you were _not_ : “You taste sweeter than I thought you would.”

It took a minute for his words to sink in, and then another minute after that for you to figure out how to respond. In that time, he lowered his head to press a kiss to your inner thigh and added another finger. “Pussy is pussy, Rogers,” you gasped again. “It’s not supposed to taste like candy.”

“I know. But still.” He sounded...thoughtful. Without warning, he leaned forward again to lick a long, slow stripe from bottom to top. He curled his tongue around your clit and sucked again—hard, this time. You kind of hated yourself for the tormented whimper that he managed to drag out of you, but for the most part, you were too busy focusing all of your attention on that one tiny part of your body and the way his mouth made you feel. “I could do this all night.”

And it seemed like he could. He fell into a tortuous rhythm of bringing you to the very edge only to pull away to say something obnoxious just before you could actually come. At some point, he added a third finger, and his hand pumped away even as he teased you.

He wanted you to beg. He didn’t come out and say it, but you slowly became aware of that fact nonetheless. That smug bastard was maybe willing to stay there on the floor with his face buried between your legs until you actually begged him to let you come. The idea was more than a little terrifying. A normal man could only go for so long before his tongue started to give out, or before his knees started to hurt, but a man with that super-soldier serum? Your pride would undoubtedly give out long before he did.

“Steve?” Your hands were still balled into fists at your sides, so tight that your fingers were aching. He pulled away again and you just barely managed to choke off the sob that rose in your chest.

“Tell me what you need, sweetheart.” As much as you wanted them to, his words didn’t sound smug.

“I need—” He curled his fingers inside you and pressed another kiss to your thigh. You swore you could hear him laughing against your skin. “God. Just let me come.”

Now. You knew your body. You’d become intimately familiar with all of its little quirks and foibles. When you were...taking care of things on your own, and you brought yourself to the edge too many times before finally letting yourself go, your climaxes were usually pathetic little things. Not nearly worth the hype, as it were. So it really pissed you off when he closed his mouth around you one last time, slid his tongue against you, and immediately dropped you into the strongest orgasm you’d ever had in your life.

Your toes curled—actually, literally curled, goddammit—as he used his free hand and his shoulder to force your legs apart and keep you from closing your thighs around his face. Unlike plenty of other guys you’d been with, he didn’t stop what he was doing the second he felt you coming. No, he kept it going, easing you through your orgasm and drawing it out while you tried not to writhe too uncontrollably on his bed. Your chest heaved as you struggled for breath, while the muscles in your stomach and legs tensed, then relaxed, in what felt like a neverending rhythm.

Only when your body finally came back to normal did he take his mouth off of you. He sank his teeth into your inner thigh as he pulled his fingers out of you, and even that was enough to send vicious little aftershocks of pleasure stabbing through you. You didn’t open your eyes, not even when you felt him straddle you on the edge of the bed and lean down to close his mouth over yours.

Tasting yourself on the lips of Captain America was something you’d never thought to prepare yourself for. The taste of his mouth was, at this point in the night, fairly familiar to you, but combined with the taste of your own body, it took on new life. Heat rose into your cheeks. When he sat up a little and held your gaze as he slipped his fingers into his mouth, you thought you might actually combust. You groaned and covered your eyes. “I—Too much,” you choked out. You weren’t quite sure what you were talking about, but the words felt right. He chuckled.

“Take all the time you need.” You felt him get off of you, and then move to reposition himself a bit further up the bed. “But we’re not done yet.”

A lot of people had made a lot of noise—mostly in trashy romance novels—about a man’s voice sounding ‘dark’, but, until that very moment, you had never quite understood what they meant. But...he sounded dark. There was no other word for it. You took another moment to try to regain some of your composure, but then you sat up. He was seated comfortably amongst the pillows near the headboard, and he was watching you. 

You dragged yourself up onto all fours on the mattress (your legs were shaky, but it was easy enough to blame that on the way he’d been forcing them apart) and crawled over to him. When you were close, he spread his legs to give you space to kneel between them.

“A little presumptuous there, aren’t we?” You mumbled even as you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxer-briefs. 

“I think it’s only fair.” You weren’t looking at him, but you could hear that smugness creeping back into his voice. Whatever. He was right, and you both knew what you were planning anyway. He lifted his hips a bit to help you pull his underwear off, and you tossed them aside, much as he’d done with yours. 

But then there was nothing else to do, no other distractions, nothing to fix your eyes on except his cock. It was just about everything that you could have expected from Steve Rogers’s cock, to be honest: it was long and thick, and curved perfectly to rest against his belly. You thought about making a joke about the serum, but couldn’t find the words. Damn…

“If I’d known that was all it took to make you shut up for a minute, I might have taken it out a long time ago.” But you could tell that, at least this time, his smugness, his bravado, was fake. More than that: there was no way that you were hearing uncertainty in his voice, was there? Still, you tore your eyes away from his cock long enough to shoot him a withering glare. 

“Shut up,” you said, without much heat. 

You weren’t a stranger to cocks. Even unfamiliar ones didn’t often throw you for a loop like this. But there was just something about this situation that made you feel uncharacteristically...hesitant, like you shouldn’t be allowed to put your hands on him, let alone your mouth. But you cleared your throat and shoved that to the side. If he ever found out about that, he’d never let you live it down. Finally summoning some courage, you reached out to close your hand around the base and squeezed it, gently. You heard him sigh and, encouraged, you lowered your head to kiss the very tip.

You didn’t take him into your mouth immediately. That would be too easy. First, you pressed soft kisses around the tip, paying special attention to the underside of the head. When you were finished with that, you moved on to trail kisses down along his length. Only when you’d reached the bottom did you look up along his body. He was already watching you intently. Holding his gaze, you opened your mouth to run your tongue all the way back up to the very tip. When you did, you smirked a bit and opened your mouth to take him inside.

You moved slowly, mostly just tasting him at first, testing him out. He did not thrust into your mouth the way some guys did. He did shift a bit, but it was only so he could lie back. When you’d gotten a feel for him, that’s when you started moving, bobbing your head slowly at first and swirling your tongue along his length. As you did, you continued to massage the base of his cock. He was too big to fit all of him in your mouth at once, and you didn’t want to leave anything out.

Gradually, you found your rhythm. You weren’t actively trying to get him off right away. After all, he’d tortured you with climax for how long before finally letting you come? This was more about feeling him, about tasting him. Every now and then, you would pull back completely, and squeeze him so you could watch that lovely bead of pre-cum form at the tip. You would make eye contact with him and lick it off before taking him all the way back into your mouth. Each time you did that, you could swear you saw his eyes get just a little bit darker before he tilted his head back against the pillows again.

On the last time you did it, he bit back a groan that sounded a little different from the others. “You have to stop that,” he warned, his voice low and tight. “Or this is gonna end real soon.”

You pulled back for a moment and peppered featherlight kisses along his length. You were enjoying yourself, it was true, but you also wanted to feel him inside you. But then a thought occurred to you, and you met his eyes again. “What’s the recovery time for a super-soldier?”

His eyes glinted. “It’s short.”

You hummed, almost to yourself. “Well. Maybe if you beg me real nice, Steve Rogers, I might let you come twice.” And then you grinned and closed your mouth around him again. This time, his hand came down to rest against the back of your neck, which may have brought your hackles up a bit.But he didn’t push. If anything, he almost seemed to be...caressing you. Something about his touch made you redouble your efforts, and it didn’t take long until he was groaning again. His fingers tightened around the back of your neck, a warning, but this time you didn’t pull away. He came hard, and you took it all, milking the base of his cock with your hand when he began to slow.

Eventually, you pulled away. He was still half-sitting, half-lying down, and he had one arm thrown across his eyes. His chest rose and fell as he breathed—he wasn’t panting, but he was certainly breathing heavily. You watched in silence for a few moments as his body came back down. Before long, he moved his hand and sought you out. If he was surprised that you were already looking at him, he didn’t show it.

“C’mere,” he said. “Let me get you out of that bra.”

Rather than giving him the satisfaction of your compliance, you simply reached behind your back and unhooked the bra with one hand. Steve rolled his eyes. He might have muttered something under his breath, but it was soft enough that you just let it go. You went to him, moving to kneel closer to his head. He reached up to pull you down for a kiss. Though this one was still every bit as sharp and demanding as his previous kisses had been, there also seemed to be a new note of...tenderness? He trailed his hand down your chest and took one of your breasts in his hand. He squeezed gently and then dragged his thumb across your nipple. It was already hard, so the attention only served to make you whimper against his mouth. 

“Sensitive?” he teased. In one swift motion, he’d pressed you backwards into the pillows and moved to cover you with his body. Without warning, he closed his mouth around your nipple, and pinched and tugged at the other with his fingers. You didn’t whimper again, thankfully, but you did groan out his name and arch your hips off of the mattress. Some part of you wanted to hate what he could make your body do, but it was easily outstripped by the part of you that just wanted fucking _more_.

As if on cue, that was when he pulled away. You tipped your head backwards and covered your eyes with your arm as you stifled a groan of frustration, but something in his touch pulled you out of it. He was shifting, tugging you into position. He pulled your legs around his hips and suddenly you could feel the head of his cock resting just against your entrance.

“You weren’t kidding when you said it was short,” you said. If you sounded a little bit in awe of him, well, that was probably normal, you told yourself. It was nothing to get worked up about.

“I never kid about stuff like this.” He didn’t even crack a grin as he leaned forward. The head of his cock slipped inside you as he moved. As much as you wanted this, it reminded you of your number one rule.

“Stop.” It killed you to say it, but it had to be done.

“Stop?” He sounded at least as tortured as you felt, but, to his credit, he did pull away from you. “What happened?” You didn’t answer right away because you were busy steeling yourself for what had to be done. When you tried to pull your legs off of him, he briefly tightened his grip on them, but then released you. You squirmed away until you could crawl on all fours to the edge of the bed, and then reached for your jeans. “Doll, you can’t tell me to stop and then show me all that...”

You cast a quick Look at him over your shoulder, but, true to his word, he didn’t seem to be kidding. He was, of course, erect, and stroked himself as he looked at you. You finally grasped some of the denim material, and then pulled it up onto the bed with you. After a moment, you found the little foil packet and held it up triumphantly. “Gotta be safe,” you explained. 

He groaned and released his cock to gesture towards the nightstand. “I’ve got all kinds of rubbers in the drawer there. All you had to do was ask.”

You shrugged and tossed the packet over to him. “Do you want any help with that thing?”

It was his turn now to shoot you a withering glare. In an instant, he’d opened the packet and rolled the condom down over his cock. When he was finished he held his arms open. “Happy now?”

You smirked at him and wriggled your way back beneath him. When you were in more or less the same position as before, you squeezed him with your legs. “Ecstatic. Now where were we?”

He cleared his throat. “I was thinking about bending you over and taking you from the back, but maybe that’s just me.” Still, he reached between you again, and you could feel him rubbing himself against you. “Tell me if you need me to stop, okay?”

You laughed despite yourself. “Thanks for the concern, Rogers, but I’m not a virgin. Do your worst.”

His eyes narrowed into slits. He looked like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. Without any further warning, he thrust into you, so he was buried to the hilt. The sudden intrusion stole your breath. It was just this side of painful, but rather than admit he’d been right, you sank your teeth into your lower lip. 

“You’re so fucking stubborn, you know that?” He spat the words at you, though without any real anger, and thrust again. You bit down harder to keep from crying out. “Too stubborn for your own damn good.” By the fourth thrust, however, your body was beginning to adjust to him, and most of the pain had all but disappeared. He shifted slightly, and leaned forward to brace his elbows against the mattress on either side of your head. This brought his mouth close to yours, close enough that all you had to do was arch forward a bit to close the distance. The second you did, he kissed you like he meant to devour you. He made you feel, embarrassingly enough, like you were starving for him. You wrapped your arms around his neck to keep him from pulling away and did your best not to moan too loudly into his mouth.

His hips were rock-steady. Each time he thrust into you, he did it with devastating accuracy. He filled you in a way that you weren’t entirely used to, pressing deep inside you just long enough to make your breath catch in your throat before he was sliding out of you to repeat the whole process over again. He could do this forever. The thought came unbidden, but as soon as it did, you knew it was true. If you didn’t make him stop, he could keep doing this for who knew how long.

Between his hips and his mouth, it wasn’t long before you felt your second climax building. You tried to twist away from his mouth, to warn him, but he didn’t let you go. You had never really known Steve Rogers to be overly possessive or demanding, at least not when it came to you, but he was a different man right now. He didn’t change his onslaught: he continued to claim you with his mouth and with his hips. Your heart was beating wildly in your chest. He had to hear it, right? He had super-soldier hearing? You dug your fingernails into his back, knowing all the while that you’d never leave any marks on him. Desperation was growing inside you, bubbling up into your chest and your lungs. He was brutal, but this wasn’t enough. 

When he finally broke the kiss, you swallowed your pride. It was hard to tell exactly what you were saying—mostly you were just senselessly pleading with him for more, _fasterharderpleaseSteveplease_. He didn’t tease you like you thought he might. He only grunted and sank his teeth into your neck, then reached between you to find your clit so he could pinch and roll it between his fingers. It was more than enough. You moaned his name as he coaxed you to orgasm one more time, pain and pleasure mingling beneath his touch. Your legs tightened around him, making it impossible for him to move even if your internal muscles hadn’t been locking him in place. When you came down again, he was no longer biting you, but sucked gently against a spot on your neck that you could already tell would bruise. You groaned raggedly. 

“Aren’t we a little old for hickies?”

He didn’t say anything, only rolled backwards, carrying you with him so you were now sitting astride him. Your muscles threatened to give out, but you were more than willing to give him what he needed. So you rocked against him, bracing against his expansive chest. He lay back with his eyes closed, but his hands, and their bruising grip on your hips, guided you. It didn’t take long before his breathing grew heavier, a little more labored. He grunted again, except this time it sounded like your name. His whole body went taut, then, straining against you. You could feel him throbbing inside you, and another aftershock of pleasure made you shiver. 

When he was finished, he pulled you down to him and worked his fingers through your hair. You could hear his heartbeat, thumping quickly in his chest. There was something oddly peaceful about listening to it, hearing it slow down as his breathing evened out. He kept stroking your hair. You felt peace like you’d never felt with any of the strangers you’d gone home with. Who would have guessed that you’d find it in Steve Fucking Rogers.

He said something: you could feel the way his voice rumbled through his chest and throat, but you couldn’t quite make out the words. You started to sit up so you could look at him, but he tightened his grip on you to hold you in place. You didn’t quite have the strength or the motivation to fight him or make him release you.

“I didn’t hear you.” 

He was quiet for a few moments. He drew in a deep breath that lifted you into the air, and you felt him drumming his fingers against your hip. “I said. Let’s do this next time. Don’t go find some stranger. Come to me.” He cleared his throat, and then delivered his next sentence in his Captain America voice: “I’ll take care of you, little lady.”

Your first instinct was to laugh. Your second instinct was also to laugh, actually. So you did, dissolving into giggles as you reached up to clutch the backs of his arms. Part of your laughter was simply...an off-gassing from the stress and anxiety of the mission, to be honest, but also...that voice. You struggled to sit up, and this time he released you. “You can’t do that fucking voice when you’ve still got your cock in me,” you declared, tightening your muscles around him to prove your point. He wasn’t fully erect anymore, but he _was_ still firmly in place inside you. 

“That’s fair,” he said with a little nod. But then he lifted his eyes to yours, and there was more hope in them than there really should have been. “But the rest?”

To keep from having to answer right away, you rose up a bit, to let him slip out of you. When you were finished, you let yourself collapse to the mattress beside him. Maybe you should be heading to your own room now, but you just didn’t have the energy. “I can do that,” you said at last. If a little surge of excitement raced through you at the thought, you very pointedly ignored it.

“Good.” His arm twitched, like he’d thought about reaching for your hand but then decided against it. The two of you were silent for a while, but then he turned his head to look at you. “So how do I compare? Against the rest of your warm bodies?”

In truth? He was leaps and bounds ahead of pretty much anyone else you’d ever fucked. It didn’t make sense, how he could possibly be so much better than modern men who grew up practically surrounded by sex, but you weren’t about to say that out loud. Instead, you shrugged and made what you hoped sounded like a noncommittal noise. “You were fine. No complaints.”

He hummed thoughtfully and turned his head back to the ceiling. “You know, I gotta ask. Was it just my imagination, or were you _begging for more_ there at the end?” The sound of his voice made heat rise into your cheeks. You tried to sit up, but he stretched his arm out to hold you still. You could have squirmed away if you’d really wanted to, but...you didn’t really want to. “Stay. Will you stay?”

“I should really go,” you mumbled. He hesitated for a minute, and you got the sense that he was looking at you. The only move you made was to turn onto your belly and pull one of his pillows into the hollow between your neck and your shoulder. This didn’t have to be anything big. Just teammates blowing off steam. And his bed was more comfortable than yours was. Drowsily, you made a mental note to talk to Tony about that the next time you saw him. Except, first you’d have to figure out how to do it without telling him that you fucked Steve. Maybe you could suffer in silence a little longer.

You felt him sit up a bit, and then he was draping a blanket over you. He laid back down without a word, but reached out to take your hand. You slid your fingers between his. Just teammates blowing off steam.


End file.
